


Tales From Outside the Workplace

by Aurelia_Combeferre



Series: The Surgeon Verse [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, M/M, Romance, hospital fic, sociopolitical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-18
Updated: 2015-05-20
Packaged: 2018-03-31 03:36:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3962938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aurelia_Combeferre/pseuds/Aurelia_Combeferre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Enjolras and Eponine get to know more about each other, and everyone else....and not just in the context of work either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Outside the Workplace**

The first thing that crosses Eponine’s mind when she dares to blink is that the light is so strong that it must certainly be from the sun when it is quite high in the sky. ‘ _This is not how I wanted to sleep in,’_ she thinks just a moment before she opens her eyes and finds herself blinking up at a ceiling painted a slightly startling shade of red. It only makes her headache a little worse, so she shuts her eyes again for a few more moments before daring to take another look. Only then she reaches behind her and finds that she is resting quite comfortably on huge sofa pillows, never mind the fact that they smell more like spicy cologne instead of noodle soup and pizza. At least it’s a sofa in some safe though obnoxiously decorated room, and not an open curb side, a jail cell, or the floor of the call room at Saint-Michel Hospital.

As she carefully stretches and takes stock of the fact that she is still wearing last night’s clothes, she hears snoring coming from someplace to her left, which is odd because she is pretty sure that to her left is the floor. She cranes her neck to get a better look and rolls her eyes at the sight of uncombed golden hair. For a while she contemplates leaving the noisy and thankfully fully clothed culprit there, if only to enjoy the view of what some people have termed as ‘a ravishing piece of ass’, but nevertheless her better judgment takes over. “Enjolras, what are you doing on the floor?” she asks as she reaches over to nudge him.

He stirs at the sound of her voice and lifts his head to give her something of a drowsy smile.  “At least it’s my floor.” He manages to roll over only to end up cursing when he gets a good eyeful of sunlight. “What time is it already?”

She checks her pocket and finds her phone there. Thankfully there are no cracks or embarrassing photos suddenly turned into wallpaper. “Ten-thirty.”

Enjolras curses under his breath again. His voice is delightfully scratchy and low, and it’s all that Eponine can do to hide how much that makes her grin. “That’s a new record,” Enjolras finally says more loudly.

“Come on, you’ve never been _this_ hungover before?” she asks.

“I don’t usually drink this much.”

“Yes, unless it’s Irish coffee? Seriously, how could you _not_ know what’s in it?”

He groans and rubs his eyes. “I’m sure there were only _two_ coffees in that entire batch which had actual whisky in them.”

Eponine nods, knowing very well what he means. “Remind me never to let Azelma be in charge of making the drinks again.”

“I’m confiscating Courfeyrac’s key to his alcohol stash,” Enjolras mutters.

“Good luck. I heard from Feuilly that Courfeyrac keeps it on his person or in his underwear drawer.”

“I have my means.”

“Yeah you do,” she says as she slowly sits up and extends a hand to help Enjolras onto the sofa. He settles easily beside her, occasionally rubbing his temples and opening his eyes wider as he tries to recover from his headache. Although the memories of last night are becoming clear again, she gets her phone out again to begin checking for any pictures, phone calls, or any evidence of misdeeds committed under the influence. She sees him apparently doing the same thing with his phone, since he is trying to keep a straight face as he looks through the display. “Found anything?”

“A recording of Jehan and Grantaire having a poetic debate---complete with acting something out on their table,” he deadpans as he passes the gadget to her.

She snorts as she goes through the first few seconds of the video footage. This is definitely not safe for work, or for that matter anywhere. “Bet you weren’t expecting it when you pressed the record button,” she says as she returns the phone to him.

He shakes his head before going through more items on his phone. “Just pictures of everyone at the bar. Nothing too scarring.”

“Good,” Eponine says. Her own phone is also free of anything that can cause trouble for her, Combeferre, Joly, and Musichetta in the hospital call rooms, and so she can rest a little easy for now. “Do you have juice in your fridge, or at least a lot of water?”

“I bought a whole liter of orange juice yesterday,” Enjolras replies, gesturing to the refrigerator across the room.

“Will do,” she says before getting up to fetch the drink. It should be more than enough for the two of them to get into some shape to face the rest of the day, for as long as no one else comes knocking on his door to ask for a medically sound hangover cure. She is sure that her siblings and their troop of friends all know where she spent the night, so it’s only a matter of hours till she’ll have to deal with their mischievous, shit-eating grins when her name and Enjolras’ name come up in the same sentence.

As she’s pouring the juice into two large glasses, she sees him putting some slices of bread into the toaster. “This is supposed to also help, I heard. Better than coffee,” he says as they return to their seats on the sofa.

She nods before raising her glass. “We’re never doing _that_ again.”

“Yeah.” He clinks his glass against hers before taking a long gulp of orange juice. Now that he’s on his feet and somewhat thinking, he looks a little less pallid and dishevelled. “Are you reporting to work today?” he asks after a moment.

“It’s my off day. Besides when I’m in this state, I’m more of a hazard than anything else,” she replies before draining half of her glass. She’s long resolved not to become one of those surgeons who shows up in the OR when under the influence, or shaking with sleeplessness, or just otherwise unfit to work. Her patients deserve far better than that. As far as she’s concerned it’s easier to call in sick and face a tongue-lashing from the department heads than to deal with a malpractice case. “What are you doing today?” she asks Enjolras.

“Paperwork,” he replies, gesturing in the general direction of his laptop on the coffee table a few feet away. “There’s still a lot to prepare for next week’s snap election.”

“About time though. It’s been ten weeks,” she says sympathetically. The new government has only been in place for about two months and a half, and there is so much that has to be done in the spirit of ‘getting things right’ such as tracking down disappeared individuals, handing in courtesy resignations, dealing with new appointments, digging up records, and just making sure that life can go on somehow. Of course Enjolras is in the thick of it all, pursuing one thing after another with more energy and drive than she has ever seen in one person. ‘ _They say he is even more relentless now than before the shooting,’_ she thinks.

If it’s been ten weeks since things really began pulling together, it makes ten weeks too since Enjolras showed up at her office to ask her out for coffee, eleven weeks since he’s left the hospital, and twelve or so weeks since he ended up in the emergency room, in her care, and now in her life. It’s longer than she’s followed up most of her patients, with the exceptions of course of the accident prone and repeated visitors to the Child Protection Unit. But then again, he hasn’t been her patient for eleven weeks now; for one thing she doesn’t text her patients every day, or go with them to spoken word nights, art galleries, or to their friends’ apartments. ‘ _And now I’m raiding his refrigerator, sleeping on his sofa, and worrying about embarrassing photos on our phones,’_ she realizes. It’s a scenario that is even crazier than the hospital dramas that she and Musichetta used to download and make MSTs of during their medical school days.

As if on cue her cellphone goes off at the same moment the toaster lets out a pinging sound. She dives for her phone and groans on seeing a message from Azelma. ‘ _Hope you guys had fun at your party for two! See you later!’_ the text reads. Eponine winces, seeing that this message would be pretty innocuous if not for the fact that the message accompanies a picture of herself and Enjolras at the door of their friends’ apartment, arms around each other’s shoulders, standing cheek to cheek such that they could almost kiss. It would be almost a picture of what good friends do, if not for the bright and goofy smile on Enjolras’ face, which is so different from his normally stern, slightly approving demeanor. Even more alarmingly, _her_ own grin is just as wide, carefree and glowing.

Not even a thousand words can explain this picture.

She sets down the phone before reaching for the plate of toast that Enjolras puts in front of her. “We’re screwed,” she mutters, motioning for him to take a look at the phone.

“Courfeyrac sent me the same thing, only with something more risqué,” Enjolras deadpans.

“We’re going to disappoint them,” she says through a mouthful of bread.

“I know,” he replies. Yet even so there is an unspoken question now between them, something that has been waiting underneath this quiet and now increasingly awkward morning scene. For a while neither of them speaks, and the only sounds are that of them slurping orange juice or chewing on the dry toast.

He breaks the deadlock first. “Are we doing this again?”

“We will be if we fall for the Irish coffee trick,” she quips. Yet even so she knows that this is not what he means, so she inches her hand closer to his. His fingers meet hers, allowing her to marvel again that his hands also have their own share of calluses. There are stories there, of late nights, protests, travels, and encounters with myriads of people. It’s ironic that for someone who makes a living on learning things about people and how best to help them, she is still so caught off-guard by him. Thanks to the odd circumstances of their meeting she knows his body in a very strange way, but despite this, it’s his noble spirit and earnestness that draws her to him, that brightens her days and banishes her lingering fear of the dark. “If this is how it will always end up though, it can’t be so bad,” she says after a few moments.

“Next time, we can do without the hangover,” Enjolras tells her frankly as he brings up their hands to brush her hair out of her face. “I want to remember every single moment you’re in.”

His words are enough to make Eponine feel as if she’s drunk down a shot of the best coffee, as if she’s heard the best news in her life, or simply as if she’s walking on air. However it’s the sincerity in his voice that seals the deal. She can feel her heart pounding hard against her ribs as she leans in further into his touch and looks into his eyes. It is enough now for her to meet him halfway just long enough to brush her lips against his. He is taken aback for a moment before he returns her kiss, sending pure fire coursing from the top of her head to the tips of her toes even after they must part in order to catch their breath. She knows better than to try to put words to this, so she settles for curling up under his chin, just so he can rest an arm over her waist. For a moment she fears that she might hurt him, given that his scars are still so new, but he hugs her closer as if to show that he does not mind.

After a while it’s his cell phone that rings and he reluctantly uncurls himself from around her. “It’s Courfeyrac,” he says with a long suffering sigh.

“Put it on speaker,” she suggests. “He won’t know what hit him.”

He smirks before taking the call. “Good morning Courf. How are you doing?”

‘ _Pretty good. How about you?’_ Courfeyrac drawls on the other end of the line. The mischief is almost palpable in his voice, which is sometimes hindered by the apparent background noise of a crowded room. ‘ _How is Eponine?’_

Eponine has to muffle her giggles into the sofa cushions even when Enjolras motions for her to be quiet. “Good. Very good actually,” Enjolras says in a level tone. “Are you at the bakery again?”

‘ _Maybe.’_

“If you’re ordering one of those ‘Congratulations on the sex’ cakes, you can just leave it at ‘Congratulations’. Don’t spend all your money.”

For a moment there is silence on the other end of the line. ‘ _Enjolras, you’re kidding!’_

“He sure is not!” Eponine calls. “And by the way please remind Azelma to actually drink water---there’s no use resorting to hair of the dog! Thanks much!”

Enjolras chuckles over Courfeyrac’s groaning and swearing before he politely says goodbye to his friend and then hangs up. “You always have to be the doctor, don’t you?” he teases.

“Nah, that was just me being a big sister,” she reminds him.

“Point taken.”

“This all began because you wanted to know what I am outside the workplace. Still like it?”

He grins before kissing her palm. “That’s a very big understatement, Eponine.”


	2. Bed 8

**Bed Number 8**

One mystery of the universe, or at least one mystery that Combeferre, Joly, and a few other wise friends have given up on ever solving, is Remy Bahorel’s predilection for all scenes bloody and chaotic. Every one of his friends has his or her own theory, ranging from an unvoiced death wish, to a love for the sensational, or to a knack for conflict. ‘ _Sometimes it’s just simply bad timing,’_ Bahorel decides one late night as he’s sitting on the curb just outside a rough pub, waiting for the now familiar whine of ambulance sirens.

He grits his teeth as he presses a handkerchief to his wounded right hand, glancing now and then at the increasingly large crimson stains on the fabric. Although he’s sure that he’s twisted his right ankle and acquired a new collection of bruises all over his face, he’s most worried about the gash that stretches across the back of his hand. ‘ _At least I’m not really in danger of exsanguination,’_ he reassures himself. Nevertheless he knows that if he does not seek medical attention, he may be in danger of losing some function of his hand. It is this thought that keeps him rooted to his seat regardless of what he knows will transpire in the next two or three minutes.

It is only a matter of seconds before an ambulance tears up the street and comes to a stop a few feet away. The door pops open and a paramedic leaps out, looking as if he rolled out of the shower instead of the emergency room. “Nice to see you, Bahorel,” he greets. “Should have been on a different day of the week though.”

“Tell that to the other fellows in there. It might make them think twice about ganging up on someone in the washroom,” Bahorel says, jerking the thumb of his uninjured hand towards the doorway. “Can’t you bring me elsewhere, Voisin?”

“Uh-uh, doctors’ orders,” the paramedic replies cheekily. “Now let me check you over. Nothing broken?”

“Probably not,” Bahorel answers. He’s gone through this questioning so many times before, almost to the point he can make a comedy sketch out of it. Perhaps that will be something to play out this Christmas, when he and his friends can find time to celebrate. All thoughts of this are rapidly abandoned when Voisin prods his injured leg, making him cuss up a storm all the way till he is carefully lifted into the ambulance.

In a few minutes the ambulance nears the all too familiar entrance to the emergency room of the Saint-Michel Hospital. Even in the dark Bahorel notices that there is a strange paucity of other ambulances and vehicles in the driveway and parking lot. “Looks like a slow night,” Bahorel quips as Voisin helps him into a wheelchair.

“Yes and you get the doctor’s special attention, you lucky jerk,” Voisin retorts.

“Hah! That was already monopolized a long time ago by a friend of mine,” Bahorel retorts.

Voisin sighs resignedly as he helps push Bahorel’s wheelchair up the ramp and into the doorway. “Is Bed Number 8 still free, Doctor Thenardier?” he calls.

The resident on duty takes one look at the newcomers and rolls her eyes. “Get him there,” Eponine says as she picks up her green stethoscope and a dark red belt bag. “You broke your longest streak yet. Two weeks and five days,” she deadpans as she sets down these things at the bedside.

“It probably wasn’t going to last past the weekend anyway,” Bahorel says as he makes himself comfortable on the soft foam mattress. “It’s a triple birthday over at the office on Friday.”

“You’re starting to sound like Bossuet,” Eponine points out as she shines her penlight into his eyes to check his pupils. She chews on her lip as she finishes examining his head.  “At least it doesn’t appear as if you’ve broken anything in your face.”

“Lucky me.”

“No, you just have a hard head.”

Bahorel groans dramatically when he hears the rest of the emergency room staff snicker at the surgeon’s retort. “You break my soft heart, Eponine,” he says, flinging a hand to his head till he feels the sting from his wound. “Do I have to be brought into the operating room for this?”

Eponine quickly inspects her friend’s injured hand. “It’s shallow. I’ll stitch it up.”

“Right here?” Bahorel splutters.

“Yes, like every other time before that,” Eponine deadpans. “No jokes about operating room privileges, or I just might decide to forego the anesthesia.”

“Isn’t that already a cruel and unusual procedure?” Bahorel asks, even if he knows perfectly well that Eponine is just joking. Just as he expects, Eponine doesn’t dignify this remark but instead proceeds to grill him about the details of the incident and ask about his other injures. ‘ _Professional to a T,’_ he thinks, almost regretting that she has shifted so quickly into the role of attending physician instead of long-suffering friend.

She sighs deeply as she finishes her questioning and history-taking. “I’m going to have to call your boss.”

“Does he have to know?” Bahorel hisses.

“You’re the one who listed Enjolras as your emergency contact, and anyway he asked me, Combeferre, Navet, and even Joly and Musichetta to inform him if this sort of thing happens,” Eponine explains seriously. “He has to know too since that ankle of yours will put you out of commission, or at least behind your desk, for a few days.”

 The idea is enough to make Bahorel cringe such that he almost does not notice when Eponine calls for some materials to clean out and stitch up his injured hand. He swears explosively when he feels a wad of wet gauze against his wound. “I thought you were going to numb it!”

“I can’t do it without cleaning it out a little first,” Eponine says. “Watch your language by the way; there are children in here.”

This time Bahorel wants to hide his face as he hears more of the nurses and even some of the female patients laughing. It does not help that many of them are pretty, though all of them pale beside his friend. He grits his teeth at the familiar sting of anesthesia getting under his skin. “Don’t you ever get tired of this, Doc?”

She shakes her head. “I never get bored, especially when I’m on ER duty.”

“I never imagined you as a thrill-seeker,” Bahorel remarks. Inasmuch as he hates to verbalize it, his friends know that he cannot go for long without feeling that rush of adrenaline in his veins. His only trouble is that he is not good at mopping up the consequences.

“It’s not a usual kind of thrill,” Eponine replies. She carefully opens a foil packet that he already knows to be a length of nylon suture, already threaded into a curved needle. “It doesn’t get your heart pumping all the time.”

“Sounds boring, no offense.”

“It’s enough to make me sleep better at night.”

Bahorel nods before looking away as Eponine begins to stitch up the injury. The fact that she’s still up to do this is probably an explanation enough.


	3. Ramen Nights

****

**Ramen Nights**

“When you say you’re going to work overtime again tonight, do you mean here in the city hall, or at the Thenardiers’ apartment?”

The jovial yet guilty laugh that leaves Courfeyrac’s lips is enough to have Enjolras narrowing his eyes disapprovingly. “You like that place too as much as the rest of us,” Courfeyrac quips as he passes a folder to his friend. “You have to admit that it is conducive for work.”

Enjolras shakes his head at the pile of documents in his hands. It is about time that this case file has returned to his desk, given that they have two more days before their next big hearing. Although he is certain that they will win this case versus a recalcitrant tycoon notorious for his quashing of labor unions in his corporations, he is still not one to leave any loopholes open for attack. “For the social aspect of it perhaps, but certainly not for research,” Enjolras points out.

“If the research is about health, or education, or engineering, it certainly is conducive!” Courfeyrac says. “Or are you just learning not to bring work home?”

Enjolras gives his friend a withering look, which only prompts another peal of laughter from Courfeyrac before he makes his timely exit from the office. Once he is decidedly alone Enjolras glances at the clock, which reads five in the afternoon, and for a moment he wishes that the next sixty minutes would simply pass in the blink of an eye. The truth is that he and Courfeyrac have the same destination in mind, and perhaps the same might be said for a number of their friends.  ‘ _Which makes any actual research moot tonight since discussions over coffee can’t always be cited in the courtroom as evidence,’_ he decides as he begins reviewing the case file once again. 

He hardly notices the time going by until he hears his phone start beeping, heralding the arrival of text messages from Courfeyrac, Bahorel, Feuilly, Grantaire, Jehan, and amazingly enough even Combeferre and Musichetta, all asking if he will be at the Thenardiers’ apartment that very evening. He takes a moment to read through each and every message before pressing the number ‘2’ on his phone, which has Eponine’s number on speed dial. Thankfully for once, the call doesn’t go to voice mail; he’s had a knack over the past few days for calling her up when she is in the middle of a tricky surgery. “Eponine, what is supposed to be happening at your place tonight?” he asks as soon as she picks up.

“It’s Wednesday today, isn’t it?” she replies.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Ramen night. It’s a thing my siblings and I have since midweek is always busy for us.”

“I see,” Enjolras says, bemused once again at the odd habits of the Thenardier trio. “I take that tonight, we’re all invited?”

“They invited themselves when Courfeyrac mentioned it,” Eponine replies. “As for you, you already know that our table seats _at least_ four.”

Enjolras can vividly imagine Eponine’s smile as she says these words. He’s taken to eating at the apartment whenever he gives Eponine a lift home after she works a long shift at the hospital. Most of the time he only stays for a short while, just long enough for some coffee and a light snack, but there have been a few times wherein she’s asked him to stay and join her and her siblings for dinner. Two nights ago, she didn’t even have to ask; she just set a fourth plate at his favourite place. “Do you want me to pass by for you in maybe, half an hour?” he asks.

She sighs deeply. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to scrub in _now_. A kid just got mauled and I’ve got to stop a few bleeders. Save me some ramen, won’t you?”

“Alright,” he says even as he begins packing up his papers. “Good luck and take care.”

“You too, Enjolras,” she replies before hanging up. There is a knowing sort of resolve in Eponine’s tone in moments like this.; she’s seen pretty much every kind of injury and physical trauma both in and out of the hospital, but she is far from wearied and jaded about her work. Perhaps, Enjolras wonders, this is why Eponine is good at what she does.

As he locks up his own small office, he hears cabinets slamming and chairs being pushed across the floor, the telltale signs of his friends trying to pack things up so they can punch out at the bundy clock precisely when work hours end. As he passes by a room down the hall he notices Bahorel and Feuilly shouldering their backpacks. “Where is Bossuet?” he asks.

“With Grantaire and Jehan,” Feuilly replies. “They went to get some ingredients.”

Enjolras raises an eyebrow at this news. “All that for ramen?”

Bahorel stares at him like he’s grown two heads. “Enjolras, ramen is never just ramen!”

“It’s noodle soup you can get out of a can or a pack,” Enjolras argues.

“That’s non-traditional ramen,” Feuilly points out. “We’re going to try it slow-cooking style this time; at least that is what Azelma and Gavroche want to do.”

“Very well then,” Enjolras concurs. This should be interesting; Bossuet’s bad luck with food bargains just may be offset by Grantaire’s knack for knowing the best places to get everything edible. If all fails, there is always a reliable thing called 24-hour delivery.

All fears of having to make a late night call for food are dispelled the moment that they arrive at the fifth floor corridor leading to the Thenardiers’ apartment, and the air is rich and thick with the aroma of _shoyu_ ramen broth. “How did you find time to make this from scratch?” Bahorel asks Azelma and Courfeyrac, who have taken charge of cooking the noodles while Gavroche, Bossuet, Grantaire, and Jehan are dealing with the other ingredients such as the pork meat, _nori_ , vegetables, eggs, and fish cake.

“It’s called planning ahead,” Azelma replies. She glances over to where her boyfriend has managed to fish out one noodle to fling against the wall. “What are you doing?”

“Checking if the noodles are cooked,” Courfeyrac says with a grin.

Azelma puts her hands akimbo. “Nice try. Ramen isn’t cooked _al dente_ by the way.”

Courfeyrac goes completely red as everyone howls with laughter but nevertheless he salvages the situation by grabbing her by the waist and kissing her amid Bahorel and Grantaire’s catcalls and Gavroche’s noises of disgust. Enjolras merely rolls his eyes at his friends’ antics before he starts to set the table. He already knows where the Thenardiers keep the dishes and the cutlery, and which particular glasses the siblings prefer to use. He puts thirteen plastic bowls in a stack and arranges that same number of glasses around the small card table that serves as desk and dining table depending on the time of the day. ‘ _This is what I get for not being a stranger,’_ he catches himself thinking as he surveys his handiwork. It’s a resolution that he’s striven to make part of his new lease on life, as difficult as it may be to keep in contact with his friends during some busy weeks.

In the meantime Bossuet whistles as he just manages to avoid cutting himself while slicing up some fish cake. “Marius and Cosette will be joining us too,” he informs Enjolras.

“I see,” Enjolras says calmly as he retrieves two more bowls and glasses. Marius and Cosette are the two people he knows who can be more shameless about public displays of affection than Courfeyrac and Azelma. It doesn’t help that when Marius and Cosette do show up a few minutes later, they are pretty much walking hand in hand, eliciting another round of catcalls but this time with Courfeyrac’s voice drowning out the rest of them.

Marius is of course flustered at this greeting, but Cosette merely laughs before giving Courfeyrac a sceptical look. “You’ve got a girlfriend too. Why don’t you hold her hand then?”

“Strike two!” Gavroche hollers as nearly everyone else erupts in another fit of laughter. “You’re out the moment my sister and Musichetta get here.”

“The tortures we endure from the fairer sex,” Courfeyrac groans dramatically as he slumps against the kitchen counter. “At least it’s all worth living in your heart, dying in your lap, and being buried in your eyes,” he tells Azelma.

Jehan clucks his tongue at this mangling of a quote. “The Bard rolled in his grave.”

“His bones need the exercise after all these centuries,” Grantaire says as he claps the poet’s back.

“Exercise? At the rate everyone misuses ‘Hamlet’ on a daily basis—“ Jehan gripes.

“I hate that play; it has too many clichés,” Bahorel chimes in.

Marius looks horrified at this. “How could you dislike it? It’s a good study of the human mind...”

In a few moments the discussion turns into a debate about the misappropriation of classical literature in modern day parlance, a topic which sounds like a cross between an actual academic discussion and a raunchy comedy sketch only in this particular company.  It doesn’t even stop when it’s time to serve up the ramen, or even when Combeferre, Joly, and Musichetta finally show up and end up flabbergasted at one of Grantaire’s grosser analogies regarding Tacitus. “Marius, you should get everyone’s heads examined. This flight of ideas can’t be good,” Musichetta declares once she hears what prompted this train of discussion to begin with. 

“I’m a neurologist, not a psychiatrist,” Marius points out.

“Yes, but shouldn’t we rule out organic causes before going down the psychosomatic route?” Joly quips as he gets two bowls for himself and Musichetta.

“Joly, you should know this isn’t something that can be cured....assuming that we even _want_ to be cured,” Grantaire says gleefully.

Combeferre lets out a long suffering sigh. “Only you would be happy about such pathology.”

“It’s only pathology when there is too much alcohol involved,” Enjolras points out.

Everyone bursts out snickering. “Too much being relative especially when there is coffee involved?” Courfeyrac asks.  

Enjolras merely raises an eyebrow though he knows perfectly well what Courfeyrac is referring to. It has been a little more than a month since the last time their group of friends conspired to play a prank on him and Eponine, in hopes of having them ‘resolve matters together.’  The only truly ill consequence of this incident is that now he and Eponine cannot look at Irish coffee again without laughing or at least sharing a conspiratorial look. ‘ _They’ll never know what we talked about when we sobered up,’_ he decides. There are some things that are just meant for him and her to keep.

The fact that there is _someone_ he can share such a private joke with is perhaps the biggest surprise of his life so far. It’s why he takes it upon himself to fill a bowl full of ramen and leave it in the microwave, safe from everyone else’s hunger. “Who on earth taught you how to be a good boyfriend?” Bahorel jokes when he notices this gesture.

“It’s the least he can do after crashing our place for the past few weeks,” Gavroche snickers.

Everyone makes ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’ at this revelation, and somehow Enjolras feels mortified at having this part of his life so unceremoniously revealed. It is just at that moment that the apartment door opens and Eponine steps in. Her favourite red scrubs are rumpled from a long day at work and her dark hair is a little less than smooth despite being tied back in a ponytail, but Enjolras cannot bring himself to look away from her. “How was the operation?” he asks.

She cracks a smile as she sets down her work tote. “That kid is going to live.” She immediately sits at her favourite spot on the sofa, putting her feet up as she inches just a little bit closer to Enjolras. “Is the ramen any good?”

“Better than good,” Enjolras says as he squeezes her shoulders. And really, he figures, it shouldn’t be a problem for him if his friends comment about this, or about how he gets up from his comfortable seat just to cross the room and fetch that last bowl of ramen for her, or even about how he lets her curl up against him while she eats. ‘ _I can do more than live with this,’_ he decides even as another round of laughter ripples through the group, another sign that indeed there will be no more things such as peaceful ramen nights. 


	4. More than a Simple Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just a bit of headcanon, explaining why Enjolras makes it a point to give Eponine a lift home from work. Not that this bit in time has much bearing on the rest of the timeline.

****

**_More Than a Simple Fall_ **

_She is back in the halfway house again, holding her forehead in her hands as she burrowed under the thin blankets. “I told you to put those books away! All that reading won’t help your headaches!” Mother Asuncion scolds as she tries to yank away the novel that her young charge has taken from the shelter’s meager library._

_‘It’s just an old wives’ tale!’ Eponine retorts before the pain crashes d through her temples again, forcing her to curl up and shut her eyes. As infrequent as these attacks were, they are truly inconvenient in the sense that they tend to strike whenever Eponine is most desirous of staying awake into the late hours. ‘Why when I’m about to learn of what’s next—’ she protests as she tightens her grip on the book._

“Eponine, are you awake yet?” 

She opens her eyes and curses at the sudden burst of light that assails her vision and forces her to pull her blanket over her head. After allowing herself a few moments to recover, she blinks and peeks out from under the covers, taking in the sight of her narrow bed in the tiny room she shares with Azelma. ‘ _She’s probably at work by now,’_ she realizes as she sits up slowly. 

A knock sounds on the bedroom door. “Eponine, are you alright?” Enjolras shouts from outside. 

“I’m fine. Give me a few minutes!” she answers, realizing now that it was he who called to her earlier. She frowns as she looks down and realizes she is still wearing her very rumpled red scrub suit, which means that it’s been more than a day since she has last showered. ‘ _How could he have seen me like this, straight from 24 hour duty?’_ she wonders as she gingerly gets out of bed and ambles to the door. 

She steps out to find him already sitting at the card table that serves as study table and dining table for her and her siblings. There are two steaming mugs of coffee in front of him, and the aroma is enough to have her stomach growling. “Why are you still here?” she asks as she sits down across from him. 

His eyebrows shoot up in an expression that is both quizzical and concerned. “You fainted…straight into my arms. You know, if you wanted my attention you didn’t have to go to such extremes.” 

She scowls at this lame attempt at humor as she grabs one of the mugs. “That’s coming from you?” 

Enjolras reddens with mortification. “Seriously though, you had me worried there. I picked you up at Saint MIchel Hospital, we were just fine until I was about to drop you off. Then when you got out of the car, you just passed out,” he explains. “I wasn’t going to go till you came around.” 

Eponine checks her watch and sees that it’s about noon, which means she’s been home for about four hours now. “It happens. I just needed some rest.” She takes a long sip of coffee, grateful now for the fact that Enjolras has somehow figured out how much cream and sugar she likes in her cup. “Thanks for hanging around though.” 

He nods before taking a sip of his own drink. “Have you seen anyone for those migraines of yours?” 

“Migraines? Combeferre told you?” 

“Yes. I looked the rest of it up.” 

Eponine winces when she sees that Enjolras has been browsing some medical information on his phone; clearly whatever has happened has piqued his curiosity more than usual. ‘ _I was meaning to tell you in my own time,’_ she thinks, but she figures he had best know of her condition if he’s going to spend a lot of time around her. “I get headaches when I don’t sleep. It happens to people, they get migraines, but mine is a little different.” 

His eyebrows rise even higher than before. “How?” 

She takes a deep breath and inches her hand a little closer to his; it’s his call now as to what will happens next. “I got the headaches checked out when I was in medical school, and I found out that they are something like seizures.” 

“Seizures? You didn’t convulse or twitch or anything…” he begins skeptically. 

“Not all seizures are that way,” she says tersely. She’s not about to explain to him at this hour the differences between various sorts of brain waves, and what an abnormal electroencephalogram results looks like. So she settles for taking another sip of coffee. “Some people just drop to the floor and recover quick. Some just stare into space. Some do twitch and jerk around like you expect them to. Mine are more subtle.” 

He nods slowly, trying to take this all in. “So are you taking anything for it?” 

“A very low dose medication,” she says. She gets up to rummage through her purse for that small container of pills she always brings with her especially on duty nights. ‘ _They say to take these before bedtime, but when is bedtime for a trauma surgeon?’_ she wonders silently. She’s not sure how she’s made this balancing act work over these years, always fighting for that happy medium between the daze her medication brings about and the wired, jittery feeling that accompanies her condition. Yet it’s already a background event, something that is second nature and less than conscious. However it’s not exactly the case for people who learn of her ailment, as she’s learned the hard way over the years. 

Enjolras considers the pills she sets on the table, and then looks at her again. “What causes it?” 

“As I said, lack of sleep.” 

“Is there anything I can do to help?” 

“Like if I have an attack or something…” she trails off as she realizes that he also means this question in more than one sense. “I can deal, really. I’ve done it for so long, and you don’t have to worry about me,” she insists. 

He nods before sipping more of his coffee. “So who knows?” 

“My siblings. Combeferre, Chetta and Joly know of course since we used to go on duty together and Mabeuf because he’s the boss. My parents don’t know since I got diagnosed when they were already in prison,” she explains. It’s a very short list, but it’s that way for a reason. “Most people don’t get it, even in the med field.” 

“I don’t get it entirely either, to be honest,” he says bluntly. ‘But I at least want to know how to make sure you’re safe, or that you don’t get as many attacks.” 

“You can’t be serious.” 

“Tell me, when am I not?”

She cracks a smile at the candor that she knows will never go away, no matter what she’s got to spill on him. “It’s not as if I’m profoundly disabled or something. I just need help getting home now and then.” 

“Well then, let me know.” He gives her a sidelong glance. “I’ll sleep better knowing that too.” 

She finally manages a nod. It doesn’t’ feel like giving up, but more like she finally has room to breathe.  “I’ll try. Really. I will.” 


End file.
